World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"The C gun position on the starboard side has been destroyed!"

"Radar antenna damaged!"

"Fire control unit number two has malfunctioned!"

Bad news kept coming in.

"Captain, should we turn around and retaliate?" Chen Qiming asked anxiously.

"No." Lin Haisheng shook his head. "Turning now would expose the entire broadside to the Kongo's main guns. Keep moving forward and pass through the middle. Once we get through this passage, we'll have some breathing room."

He glanced at the clock: 6:23. Seventeen minutes to go.

Seventeen minutes in hell.

On the lower deck of the Fuxing, in the kitchen near the waterline, Old Zhou was using his body to firmly hold down a violently shaking soup pot.

"Xiao Wang! Grab that steamer! Xiao Li, push the flour sack to the corner and tie it with a rope!"

The veteran, in his fifties, was like a furious lion, directing operations in the cramped kitchen. Explosions raged outside, each hit causing the ship to shake violently, and pots and pans clanged and clattered.

"Squad leader, are we... are we going to sink?" an eighteen-year-old cook asked, his voice trembling with tears.

"Sink my ass!" Old Zhou slapped him on the back of the head. "I've been at sea for thirty years, what kind of storms haven't I seen? You think this little thing can sink the Fuxing? Dream on!"

Despite saying that, Old Zhou wasn't entirely sure. He could tell that the explosion had been very close, probably on the upper deck. And the continuous sounds of secondary guns hitting their targets meant that the Japanese were very close.

"Listen up, everyone!" Old Zhou wiped the sweat from his face. "We're cooks, but we're also soldiers on the Fuxing bullet train! After the battle, the surviving brothers need to eat, and the wounded brothers need soup! So the kitchen can't be in disarray, and the meals can't stop!"

"But class monitor, who can eat anymore..."

"We have to cook, even if we can't eat it!" Old Zhou roared. "That's an order! Unless the captain orders us to abandon ship, we have to stay here! Now, Xiao Wang, go watch that pot of porridge, make sure it doesn't burn. Xiao Li, keep kneading the dough, we're having noodles for lunch today!"

"Noon?" Xiao Li was stunned. "Squad leader, it's only a little past six in the morning..."

"You think you can rest now that the war is over?" Old Zhou glared at him. "The naval battle is over, but there's still repair work, wounded soldiers, and... well, you just have to do what we tell you to do!"

The young cooks dared not speak again and returned to their posts. Old Zhou walked to the bulkhead and pressed his ear against it.

He could hear sounds coming from outside: the roar of the main gun in the distance, the howl of the secondary gun nearby, and faint shouts and... cries.

No, it wasn't crying. It was the groans of the wounded.

Old Zhou's face darkened. He went to the storage room and opened a locked cabinet. Inside were not food, but rolls of bandages, bottles of disinfectant, and surgical instruments.

"Class monitor, this is..." Xiao Wang looked on in surprise.

"The chief medical officer gave it to me secretly when we took over the ship three years ago," Old Zhou said in a low voice. "He said that if the war gets so bad that the medical bays can't hold all the patients, this place will be our second medical station."

He took out a roll of bandages and stuffed it into his pocket: "You guys continue cooking. I'll go out and check on things."

"Squad leader! It's dangerous outside!"

"Danger?" Old Zhou laughed, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco. "I should have lost my life in the Yellow Sea back in 1894. I've lived twenty more years; I've made a profit."

He pushed open the hatch and walked into the smoke-filled corridor.

At almost the same time, at the forward damage control center of the Fuxing bullet train.

Damage control team leader Sun Dayong was yelling into the communicator: "Is the fire in Zone B under control? I need a definitive report!"

"It's under control! But the number one secondary turret is completely destroyed, and all twelve members of the gun crew... have been killed in action."

Sun Dayong's hand trembled slightly. He knew the gunner of the No. 1 auxiliary turret; he was a Shandong man who had just become a father last month.

"Understood. Proceed to Sector C now. The Kirishima's secondary guns have penetrated several compartments on the starboard side, and there are reports of flooding."

"Captain, we don't have enough manpower in Sector C..."

"Transfer from zone D! Quickly!"

Sun Dayong put down the communicator and wiped the sweat and blood from his face—whose blood he didn't know. He was among the first batch of damage control personnel in the Lanfang Navy, having received the most rigorous training from German instructors in Dubai. His instructors had said: "The life of a warship depends half on its guns and half on damage control."

Now, the cannons are roaring outside, and he and his men are using their own flesh and blood to keep the warship alive.

"Captain, the medical bay is calling, asking how many bandages and tourniquets we have left..."

"Tell them we don't even have enough for ourselves!" Sun Dayong roared, but then changed his mind, "Wait, give them half of the supplies. Prioritize the wounded."

The young damage control team member ran off. Sun Dayong leaned against the bulkhead and pulled a photograph from his pocket. The photograph showed his wife and five-year-old daughter, taken when they saw him off at Dubai Port.

"Juanzi, Niuniu," he whispered, "Daddy might be home late."

A violent explosion interrupted his thoughts. The ship shook violently again, and the lights overhead flickered.

"Where were you shot?" Sun Dayong jumped up.

"It seems to be... the stern! Report from Sector D: hit near the No. 3 secondary gun turret!"

"Damn it!" Sun Dayong grabbed his toolbox. "Second team, come with me! Third team, go support the fire department!"

They rushed into the smoke-filled corridor. The air reeked of gunpowder, acrid smoke, and blood. There was water on the floor—it was unclear whether it was fire-fighting water or seawater.

Turning a corner, the sight before him made Sun Dayong gasp in shock.

A 140mm shell pierced the weakest point of the starboard armor and exploded in the corridor. A large hole was torn in the wall, revealing the churning sea and the gloomy sky outside. Seven or eight sailors lay in pools of blood, some groaning, others motionless.

"Save them!" Sun Dayong was the first to rush over.

He knelt beside a young sailor. The sailor was no more than eighteen years old, with a large gash in his chest torn open by shrapnel, from which blood gushed out.

"Hang in there! The medics are on their way!" Sun Dayong tore open the first-aid kit and pressed the bandage tightly against the wound.

The young sailor's eyes were beginning to glaze over, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something.

"What did you say?" Sun Dayong leaned closer to listen.

"……Mother……"

These were the young sailor's last words. Sun Dayong felt the hand on his chest, and suddenly couldn't feel his heartbeat.

Sun Dayong closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued checking on the next wounded soldier. He had no time for grief, no time for anger. The only thing he could do was save those who could still be saved and preserve the ship that could still fight.

At 6:28 a.m., there were still 14 minutes until Bismarck's formation arrived.

The Fuxing finally passed through the passage formed by the Hiei and Haruna. The cost was heavy: the superstructure was hit in multiple places, three secondary gun turrets were destroyed, the radar antenna was severely damaged, and the number of casualties had exceeded one hundred.

But Lin Hai's tactical objective was achieved—after passing through the passage, the Fuxing temporarily escaped being surrounded on all sides. Now, all the enemy ships were behind and to the sides.